Page 3 of The Attack Zone

Once I’ve finished taking off my practice gear and shower the sweat from practice away, I dry off and pull out my change of clothes. When Thomas says we’re laying low tonight, he really means we’re going out to dinner with our friends. That means dressing like an actual adult, button-up and all, because Stacey Anderson will be there, and I’d never let myself be caught dead looking like a schlub in Stacey’s presence.

I slide my blue shirt over my arms and mindlessly fasten the buttons while my mind slips, like it has many times, to Stacey. I first met Stacey back when I hired her to help run my animal rescue non-profit. We raise money to support local no-kill shelters and rescue programs across the state, and as much as I wanted to run the whole thing myself, I’m pretty busy during the NHL season, so I had to hire some help.

Stacey busted into my life like a gorgeous, brilliant tornado, leaving nothing but spreadsheets and insecurity in her wake. When I say gorgeous, I don’t mean she’s kinda pretty. I mean she’s the most stunning, breathtaking person I’ve ever seen. And when I say brilliant, I don’t mean she’s a little smart, I mean she’s the most talented, thoughtful,prolific person I’ve ever met. The combination leaves a usually fairly confident me cowering mentally in fear as she walks through life kicking ass and taking names.

So, yeah. I have a little crush. But Stacey and I could never be together. Not just because my checklist of a life doesn’t leave a lot of space for dating. Every time I’ve tried to be in a serious relationship, I’ve wound up so depressed I’m unable to get out of bed or so manic I almost have to be hospitalized. My checklists keep me on track, and there’s no box to check that says, “Be a good boyfriend.” In fact, I’ve been a pretty selfish, shitty one historically. So, it’s better to just avoid that whole thing all together.

But also ... Stacey doesn’t exactly love me. In fact, I worry she might dislike me quite a bit.

My phone dings with a notification from the reminder app.

Take evening meds.

I glance around the dressing room and find that it’s just me, Thomas, and Caleb, left. They both know about my diagnosis, so I pull my pill container out of my leather backpack and find the compartment with my evening medication in it. I slide a pill out, put it on my tongue, and pour water down my throat to swallow it easily. I check the reminder off on my phone and put my dirty clothes in my bag. Once my pants are on and my shoes are tied, I turn to my mirror to comb my hair. I can’t be showing up to the restaurant with wild wet hair; that would be mortifying.

“Ready to go?” Caleb says from across the dressing room.

“Ready!” I holler, messing with my hair one last time.

I turn around to see Caleb and Thomas standing at the door. Caleb’s cheeks are still red from practice, and Thomas has on his dumb backwards baseball cap.

“You know we’re going to a nice place, right?” I motion to the hat.

“Yes, Martha Stewart. I’ll take it off when we get there, don’t worry,” he says.

I picked up theMartha Stewartnickname during a particularly intense argument about flowers last year when we were helping Caleb plan the first big event for his new non-profit. At least the argument wasn’t with Stacey that time. We’ve argued about things like flowers more times than I can count, and it’s all become a bit tiring. But I like things to be a certain way, and so does she, so it’s sort of just what happens.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

We arrive at the restaurant a few minutes before our reservation and I’m already nervous. I really don’t want to argue with Stacey tonight, not in front of everyone. But even when I go in with the best of intentions, I usually wind up saying something to piss her off.

Not tonight,I tell myself.Tonight is about friendship, not fighting. Caleb’s been even quieter than normal today so I hope he’s not too anxious and can still have a good time tonight. He’s such a fun guy, especially when he’s able to let loose a little.

I hear a loud laugh from around the corner and my heartbeat skyrockets. I’d know that laugh anywhere, even if I’m not usually the one making it happen. A few moments later, Stacey and our friend Hazel walk around the corner. Stacey looks as gorgeous as ever, and she’s giggling, which is unusual for her. Her laugh makes my hands all clammy and for a moment I pretend she’s laughing because of something I said, that I’m able to bring her this much joy. But then the laugher stops suddenly. I look up and she’s staring at me, eyes wide.

“Hey,” I finally say.

“Uh, hey,” she replies, shifting in her stance just enough that I notice. I wonder what’s making her so uncomfortable,she seemed fine a second ago. More than fine, actually. She seemed ... happy. She’s wearing a purple blouse and dark jeans that cling to her curves effortlessly. Her heels could easily be used in some sort of murder or human sacrifice, they’re so sharp, and her hair is flowing down her back, all silky and soft. I want to run my hands through it, which is never going to happen so I should probably stop thinking about it.

We check in for our reservation and the host guides us to a big round booth before Cassie arrives. Hazel slides in first, followed by Thomas. Caleb slides in on his other side leaving just enough room for Cassie. I slide in next to Thomas, our bulky frames budging into each other. Then, I look up. Stacey is staring at me again. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed that she has to sit next to me or if she’s nervous about something she’s not saying, so I pat the seat next to me and try to put a soft smile on my face.

“I don’t bite,” I say.

Her face wrinkles up and I feel a laugh creep up from my chest. What I don’t say is that there’s a small part of me that wants to sink my teeth into her neck before I pepper it with kisses as I move up to her ear. Just a little. Not that I ever will. Obviously.

She scoots over into the seat next to me and I’m immediately aware of everywhere we’re touching. Her shoulder is pressed into my arm and our legs are touching from hip to knee. I feel this tingling sensation everywhere we connect. When she shifts in her seat, momentarily bringing us even closer together, my stomach dives and flips. God, I have to get over this thing I have for her. It’s becoming unmanageable, especially for something that will never go anywhere.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I’m a bit wide in the hips.”

I ... what?!

No. Absolutely not. I will not allow this powerful woman to apologize for taking up some space on a poorly designedbench. But I also don’t want to make a thing out of it in front of everyone, so I pull up my phone.

Mitch: Don’t say shit like that.

I feel her phone buzz on the bench and she looks down, pulling it from her purse. Her brows draw together as she types out a response.

Stacey: Shit like what?

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